Solemnly Swear
by mistress editor
Summary: The Hogwarts crest on his robes swirled and was replaced by the Gryffindor emblem. James wandered over to the cheering table...His mind felt numb and distant. That wasn't how it was supposed to have gone. James looked around the table, at all of his housemates. He looked at Lupin, and Pettigrew, and Black, his roommates for the next seven years of his life.
1. Prologue

*Previously published as _Genesis: A Beginning of Various Ends_ \- now re-edited/written/imagined

 **Prologue**

 _Just take a run at it._

It's a wall _._

 _It's a magic wall._

It's a bloody metal wall.

 _It's a_ fake _bloody metal wall. It isn't really there._

It looks pretty damn _there_ to me _._

 _Your mother said you'd be fine. Your mother wouldn't lie to you._

Sure she would. She lies all the time.

 _No she doesn't!_

Does too.

 _When has she lied?_

Well, she told me that things would start growing under my bed if I didn't clean it, and that eventually they'd get so big, they'd try to eat me.

 _That's probably true. It was pretty gross down there._

It's a _wall_.

 _Just close your eyes and run._

I don't want to.

 _What kind of would-be Gryffindor are you?_

With a heavy sigh, James Potter closed his eyes and gripped the handle of his trolley until his knuckles turned white. He knew there wasn't _actually_ a wall there. It was magic – an illusion. A basic illusion meant to trick Muggles into seeing what they wanted to see. But it was a damn good illusion – it looks so real, so very _there,_ and nothing could make James's eyes believe otherwise. Still, the annoying voice in his head was right: if he was going to be sorted into Gryffindor, he was going to have to run at this wall. Hell, if he was going to be sorted into _any_ house (Merlin save his soul), he was going to have to run at this wall. It was fact. It was necessity. Even Hufflepuffs could pass through the barrier.

Why not? What could it hurt?

It could hurt a lot. It's a wall. A _big, metal wall._

 _Squib_.

"James, you're going to miss your train," his mother said sharply from behind him. He could sense her narrowed eyes leave the back of his head and look to the large clock on the wall. He glanced up himself, seeing that read 10:42. He had approximately eighteen minutes to run through this wall, find a compartment on the train, load and secure his heavy school trunk into said compartment, say goodbye to his mother, and, somewhere in that time span, breathe.

"You're wasting time," she said tartly.

James sighed again, took a deep breath, then held it.

"Darling, you do still _want_ to go to Hogwarts, don't you?" his mother asked in that sickly sweet, patronizing tone of voice, the one that said he'd better answer correctly. No 'or else', just that he'd better. James knew the exact expression on her face – her chin tilted downwards, eyebrows slightly raised, eyes wide and expecting, mouth firmly set. She waited for him to reply, not because she didn't know the answer, but because she wanted to know that he did.

"Yes, Mother," James said upon releasing his breath.

"Because you don't have to," she insisted, and James didn't doubt for one moment that it was a trap. "We could just go home, and you can do whatever you want. And in a few years, you can get a job waiting tables, or cleaning streets, or you could even get a Muggle job–" And she wasn't bluffing. He could say he wanted to go home, and she would take him home. He would be allowed to do whatever he wanted, even if what he wanted to do was nothing at all. And he would spend the rest of his life leeching off his family's well-earned money, knowing he was a disappointment, and a disgrace to his father's name.

"I want to go to Hogwarts, Mother," James said through gritted teeth.

He jumped when he felt firm, slender fingers grasp his shoulder, tight enough to feel her sharp nails press against his skin, but not threateningly. He scrunched his eyes closed determinedly and tried to keep himself steady as he felt her lean down to him, felt her warm breath tickle his ear, making him shudder involuntarily.

"Then you'd better run."

Her voice was a deep whisper, soft and firm, and laced with honey and spice. James remembered. It was the same voice that would sing away the monsters in the dark of night when he was scared, and his pain when he was hurt or sick. It was the voice that had always told him to be strong, and brave, and that everything was going to be all right. And because he had always believed her, it was that voice that made him want to be brave now.

So James took a deep breath. He gripped his trolley tighter, and prayed to Merlin and to God to whomever else was listening that he wouldn't screw up.

And he ran.

The barrier was nothing more than a rush of wind in his ears. As soon as it had started, it was over. He'd made it through the barrier in one piece and with all limbs and various extremities attached just where they should be. He wasn't the smear on a metal wall he thought he ought to be.

Well that was simple enough.

James could feel that voice in his head roll its metaphorical eyes.

He looked around platform 9 ¾ for the first time in his albeit relatively short life. There were people everywhere in various states of rush and panic. The people there were in various forms of dress, from high quality, expensive robes, to all-but-patched-rags being passed off as robes, to muggle nightwear that clashed horribly with trousers and handbags, and various in-betweens.

James's mother strode through the metal barrier with her head held high, her posture perfect, just like she owned the place. Like she was rich. Like she was Pureblood. She was dressed smartly in a beige muggle blazer and skirt, complete with black heels and white pearls. Her long black hair was pulled tightly back in some elegant French hairstyle and her red lips complemented her fair complexion exquisitely. She looked ready to take over the world. She probably was. Her blue eyes were sharp, but kind, and she regarded her son fondly.

"Well, darling, here you are," she said with a slightly stiff smile.

"Yeah." Is it still too late to change my mind?

 _Squib!_

"Stand up straight," Mrs. Potter said brusquely, and James automatically, almost involuntarily, stopped slouching. He glanced down at his shoes, cheeks burning, but his mother lifted his chin with a finger. He looked up into her eyes and found them… moist. And unusually warm.

"Your first day of Hogwarts," she said smiling, not in her usual business-like tone. She said like a mother to her son. "Your father would say this is your first step into manhood."

"I'm sure he would if he were here," James grumbled. Mrs. Potter ran a hand through her son's unruly black hair, tried to tidy it, then gave it up.

"He wanted to be here, James. But you know he had to –"

"Work," James finished, pulling away from his mother.

"Your father's an important man."

"I know," James sighed, defeated. James straightened up again, telling himself that it didn't matter. And that he wasn't lying.

"He's proud of you," she told him.

"I know," he answered, forcing a smile.

The train screamed and steam billowed into the air in a great stream. The clock on the platform read 10:53. Mrs. Potter straightened herself and cleared her throat, and so James did the same.

"Be sure to write home once you've settled in," she told him.

"I will," he answered with a courteous nod.

Mrs Potter approached her son and wrapped him in a tight hug. James tensed at first, but soon relaxed and returned the embrace. He closed his eyes and breathed in her perfume, and could recall bedtime stories and childish games and laughter and warmth. He remembered that his mother loved him.

He reminded himself that Gryffindors don't cry.

He pulled back first, and looked his mother in the eyes. She held his shoulders at arm's length, subtly refusing to let go completely. Her eyes were filled with shimmering liquid now, but the tears did not slip out. She had been a Gryffindor as well, after all.

"Have a good term, darling," she said, and kissed him on the forehead. James smiled a small smile and said nothing, not trusting his voice not to waiver, or worse, crack.

He turned back to his trolley and rolled it up to the closest train door. A couple older boys wearing shiny silver "P" badges helped him lug his trunk (which probably weighed as much as he did) onto the train. He was about to pull himself onto the train when heard his name practically snapped over the cacophony. Feeling a sudden jolt in his stomach that he figured was surprise, James spun around and scanned the thick crowd, looking for the body that belonged to the voice. He pulled himself up onto the step of the train to give himself a little height, a better view, all the while feeling completely sure he'd imagined the voice. And then suddenly, he found himself staring into grave hazel eyes.

"What are you doing here?" James asked through the lump forming in his throat. He automatically snapped to attention: back straight, shoulders squares, chin up. His muscles were pulled so tight he thought he might snap, oozing to the ground like over-boiled spaghetti.

The man walking brusquely towards him through the thick crowd was tall and lithe, and James knew he was solid muscle. The face was somewhat haggard and worn, though still vaguely handsome, with deep lines around the mouth and eyes, and the dark hair was greying visibly at the temples. The bespectacled eyes held no humour, and little warmth. He was no older than forty, but easily looked ten years older. He wore dark robes (or it could have been a long coat) open over dark clothes, and it fluttered ominously behind him as he approached.

James swallowed hard and stood his ground. He tried to look tough. He felt nauseous.

When he reached the train, the man, holding James in place with his firm gaze, wordlessly reached into the pocket in his coat (or robe). James stiffened, but did not dare move. The man pulled out a slender wooden box and handed it to the boy, who blinked stupidly once and took it with a baffled expression. James looked up at the man with a furrowed brow, his own bespectacled eyes asking his multitudes of questions for him.

"Dad…" was the only thing that managed to escape his lips.

"Have a good term, son," the man, James's father, said almost conversationally.

"Thanks," was all James managed to say, slipping the box into his back pocket, next to his wand. As he fumbled with the thing, trying to ensure that it wouldn't fall out and be lost, he felt a large, calloused hand clap him sharply on the shoulder.

"Loosen up, kid, you look like you're going keel over. You're not going to war."

At these words, James felt a surge of heat flood to his head, and yet he somehow couldn't keep the smile from spreading across his face. He felt all of his muscles relax as he realised he'd been being stupid. His father was right, he wasn't going to war, he was going to school. And he didn't have to try to impress his parents, because there they were, both standing on the platform, already proud. A lightness settled in his heart as excitement and determination took the place of the nerves that had been accompanying him since the moment he'd awaken, at the crack of dawn that morning.

He turned and started to leave when he heard his name again. He looked back at his father, who was now standing with his wife. His dark clothes and scruffiness contrasted sharply with the light business suit and immaculate appearance of the woman beside him, but somehow it matched.

He was still going to impress them, though. He'd give them a reason to be proud.

"Write home the minute you get a chance, otherwise your mother will fret and I'll have hell to pay."

James couldn't help but laugh. "Bye Dad," he said, smiling fondly at his parents. He turned around and marched into the train, his chin held high, his posture perfect, just like he owned the place. Just like a Pureblood.


	2. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

The weather outside had turned bad suddenly. Lightning ripped through the dark night sky, momentarily leaving the impression of a gaping white maw seared into one's vision. A loud crack of thunder followed not three counts later, and seemed to shake the very earth to its core. The wind sounded like a thousand tortured souls screaming in agony for the sweet relief of death. The flames in streetlamps flickered wildly, threatening to go out and leave them all to the mercy of the all-encompassing darkness. The bitter cold seeped right into the bones, and James wrapped his arms tightly around his chest. His cloak was packed away in his trunk, along with the rest of his winter clothes; it had still been summer this morning, and there had been no need for them.

James stood on the platform amidst the hundreds of other students all waiting for instruction. Many of them were huddled together to protect themselves from the cutting wind, and to provide each other comfort. Lightning tore through the sky again, and this time the thunder followed sooner. James felt something heavy hit his neck, like a shard of ice slashing him. When he felt at the spot, his hand came away wet. It was only rain, but it was cold enough to burn. James tucked his bare hands back under his armpits and looked around for some sign of direction. People were brushing past him, knocking into his shoulders as often as not. He thought he heard someone bellowing from somewhere, but the sound was obscured by the wind and the thunder and it was impossible to tell exactly from where it had originated.

James spotted Frank Longbottom starting away from the station with a group of older students, his arms wrapped protectively around a smaller girl, who was leaning close into him. James ducked and dodged around other students and made his way over.'

"Oy, Frank!" he yelled over the roaring wind. Frank turned around and smiled easily, a contrast to the sullen and miserable faces of the other students.

"All right, Potter?" he called out.

"A bit chilly," James answered with a tight grin. "Hey, d'you know where I'm supposed to go?" Frank turned his head and gestured to his left.

"Follow Hagrid," he told James.

"Who's Hagrid?" James practically had to yell. Thunder rumbled loudly in the distance.

"Lantern," Frank yelled back, pointing over James's head. His friends were saying something to him and he turned to leave. "See you at the castle, Potter. Good luck!"

"Yeah, thanks," James called to Frank's retreating back. James turned to where Frank had indicated and saw a flickering light bobbing high above the heads of the students. The figure accompanying the small light was calling something, but James couldn't quite make it out. He squeezed into the crowd towards the light, finding he was moving fairly quickly since all the other students seemed to be heading the same way. As James got closer, he was finally able to discern the form of a very large man.

"Firs' Years, this way!" the man was bellowing. He turned and headed off into the darkness. James followed along with the other students, down a treacherous muddy path practically hidden amongst the thick trees. Someone hit James's shoulder hard, and he nearly fell face-first.

"Watch it!" James snapped, stumbling forward.

"Sorry," the other said at the same time, grabbing James's arm and helping to steady him. James stood and turned to the one who'd hit him. It was the boy from the train.

Just a handful of minutes earlier, and what had seemed like an endless eternity before that, James had been stuck in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express with this bloke. It had been one of the tensest, most uncomfortable experiences James could remember – and he had been in plenty of awkward situations. James had always had the ability to make friends quickly – he was charming and likeable and he knew it – but despite pulling out all his best tricks and manners, stories and jokes, for no reason he could discern, this boy with the dark hair and cold bored eyes had not warmed up to James at all. In fact, the more James had spoken, the more the boy had seemed to _dis_ like James. So, naturally, James had taken the only logical course of action – he ignored the stuffy, prissy, arrogant jerk for the rest of the trip, the two of them sitting in thick, heavy silence. By the time the train had finally rolled to a stop, James's resentment had developed into a solid lump of distaste.

The boy's apologetic expression turned quickly to a contemptuous sneer. "No need to be rude, it was an accident," the boy said coldly.

"Oh I'll bet it was," James snapped back, pushing roughly past him. The boy followed.

"Whatever."

James growled furiously and kept marching forward. The other boy was following quickly behind him, his long strides quickly eating up the distance between them. James turned quickly on his heel to face him.

"Why are you following me?" he demanded.

"I'm not following you," the boy replied stonily. "I am walking, and you just happen to be in my way." Lightning lit the sky briefly, but it took five counts for the thunder to follow.

A little ways ahead there was a curve in the path, and a boy lay face down in the mud, a small group of students stood around him sniggering. James shot the group the dirtiest look he was capable of and they sneered at him and walked on. The boy on the ground was slowly making his way onto his feet, shaking slightly, and probably not entirely from the cold. James strode over and scooped the boy up by his arm, hauling him to his feet with more than a little effort. The boy was short, but he wasn't exactly small.

"All right, mate?" James asked, tugging the boy by the sleeve to get him moving. The boy nodded. "Buncha rotten gits," James muttered under his breath, glaring ahead at the backs of the students he could no longer see.

"Thanks," the small boy said quietly. James turned his head and gave him a sure smile.

"Don't worry about it. But come on, we've got to keep moving. Sooner we get inside, the better." The boy nodded and they continued onwards. James tilted his head to see above the heads of the students. "This is so stupid," James grumbled angrily after a moment. "Why are they making us _walk_ the whole way?"

Up ahead, he saw the boy from the train roughly shove his way through a group of students. Vaguely, James thought that it might have been the same group of students that had been hassling the small boy who was still following close to him, but decided not to think anything of it as he tucked his arms closer around him and marched on, head bowed against the wind.

Thunder cracked loudly around them again, and the tree branches shuddered violently. The small boy beside James jumped, but said nothing. Through the dark, rustling leaves, James could see an expansive field of black. James squinted, trying to make sense of it. It looked like someone had spilled ink all over the land. He wiped his glasses off on his robes and looked again. Then lightning struck and was mirrored in the blackness, and James realized that they had reached the Hogwarts Lake.

As they got closer, and eventually left the semi-shelter of the trees, James caught sight of an enormous stone castle surrounded by mist, sitting atop a veritable mountain of jagged stone. The lights glowing in the turret windows looked warm and inviting, and James, whose shoes squished every time he took a step, tried to remember what it felt like to be comfortable. Soon, he could make out a small armada of rowboats sitting on the shoreline. He could also see the large waves being pushed about by the ever-persistent winds. And fleetingly, he could have sworn he saw an enormous tentacle smash the surface of the water, creating a huge wave all its own.

"All right, ev'ryone, in 'ya get! No more 'an four ter a boat!" the large man with the lantern bellowed. James shuddered.

"This can't be safe," he muttered.

"They wouldn't make us do it if it wasn't safe, would they?" the small boy asked nervously.

"Probably not. I mean, they wouldn't get as much money that way," James said. "I'm joking!" James said, grinning tightly at the look of terror in his companion's welling blue eyes. "Tuition's paid in advance, after all. Well, come on then."

James led the way towards the small boats. All of them were occupied, and most of them were already full. Mercifully, James saw that the annoying boy from the train was already in a boat, accompanied by three other students. He then noticed a lone figure sitting in another boat, breathing into his hands and rubbing them together. James strode off towards this boat, his small companion rushing along behind him.

"D'you mind if we join you?" James asked. The boy looked up just as lightning struck the lake again, and his eyes flashed a luminescent gold. The word _ominous_ floated unbidden through James's mind, but he ignored it and smiled determinedly through his chattering teeth.

"Sure," the boy said quietly. They climbed in and sat where they could without getting into each other's personal space.

"Onward!" cried the large man, who had a boat to himself, and the small armada moved forward on its own. The cold wind was still blowing about fiercely, cutting through the thin material of their robes as if it wasn't even there. The boys all huddled into themselves, trying to retain whatever body heat they had left. The wooden boat swayed dangerously back and forth, threatening to tip, and James had to fight back the sickness rising in his throat.

This time he definitely saw a huge tentacle.

The three boys sat shivering in silence for the entirety of the journey across the lake, listening to the crashing waves surrounding them as the castle loomed ever closer, until finally it was right on top of them. The boats docked in a dank stone cavern beneath the castle. Ivy crawled up the sides of the walls and over the floor, and the students had to take care not to trip over it. The large man led the first-year students up a steep set of stairs that seemed to have been carved out of the side of the cavern. James really hoped no one near the top slipped – there wasn't a whole lot of room to maneuver, so if one person fell, the lot of them would be going down hard.

The stairs seemed to climb the cliff on which the school was perched - in a not so short amount of time, James found himself walking over flat ground, the expansive lake spread out behind him, and the glowing castle looming in front of him. Even in the frigid torrential rain, the view was breathtaking, and James felt strangely peaceful for a moment.

The large man knocked heavily on an impressive wooden door at the top of another set of steps, these ones smooth and even and flanked by stone statues. The door opened instantly, revealing a severe-looking witch wearing long blue robes, a pointed hat, and square, wire-rimmed spectacles.

"The Firs' Years, Professor," the large man said, nodding his head respectfully.

"Thank you, Hagrid," the witch replied. She shot the students a stern gaze. "If you would all follow me," she said, then swept away. The students followed without a word.

The professor led them through the largest, most extravagant hallway James had ever seen in his life and into a comparably small room. All James could think was, _this place is a school?_ When all of the first years were in the room, the witch shut the door and turned to address them.

"Good evening, students, I am Professor McGonagall," she told them. The room remained silent. "In a matter of moments, you will all be sorted into your appropriate Houses. The Houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. I myself am the head of Gryffindor house.

The witch, Professor McGonagall, went on to describe the different houses and their different attributes. James tried to listen, but found himself distracted by a causeless buzzing in his head. He rubbed at his ear, thinking maybe water had gotten in and was keeping him from hearing properly, but to no avail. He watched the professor's stern gaze pass over the students, and his stomach gave a bit of an uncomfortable lurch when she found him in the crowd, making him feel as though he was already in trouble. He stood up straighter and tried to at least make it look like he was paying proper attention. Finally, after what seemed like an unreasonably long stretch of time, her gaze left him and continued over the crowd. James let out a shaky breath and tried, for once in his life, to keep still.

"Rest assured that each House has its strengths and its weaknesses, and that no House is superior to another. You are _all_ students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"Now, I shall return momentarily, when they are ready for you." The professor gave them all a final appraising look, then swept out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Whispers broke out at once among the students, all discussing which House they wanted to be sorted into, and how they were to be Sorted. Personally, James figured it would hurt. His mother had flat-out refused to tell him what the Sorting entailed. Even his grandfather had been keen to keep it a surprise. He did tell James to prepare to be shocked. James had found that thoroughly unhelpful.

"You know, I think I'm starting to be able to feel my fingers again," James said, bending and unbending his fingers stiffly.

"I still can't feel my backside," the boy from the boat muttered, almost too quiet to hear. James chuckled, noticing in the steady torchlight that the boy's eyes were in fact just blue and were by no means sinister or radioactive.

"So, what d'you think?" James asked, nodding his head at the door Professor McGonagall had just left through. The boy looked at him, his brow furrowed slightly and his face looking funny in a way James thought meant he was chewing his cheek.

"Think about what?" he asked.

"The Sorting! Which House you want to be in," said James.

"Oh," the boy said, looking at his shoes. "I haven't really thought about it. I'm really just glad to be here." He stopped talking suddenly.

James waited a moment for him to continue but the silence continued to draw out.

"Do you know which House you want to be in?" the third boy – the shorter one – asked timidly.

"Gryffindor," James replied automatically, before the question was properly finished.

"How come?" the short boy asked.

"Weeeell," James started, drawing out the word to think of a way to explain what was so obvious to him, his eyes rolling to the ceiling in a dreamy sort of way. James, of course, coming from a true pureblood wizarding family, already knew everything about the Houses. Ravenclaws, he'd been told, were clever, but could be pretentious and crafty. Hufflepuffs were hard workers, but tended to be pushovers. They were generally nice people, though, and could be good to have around. And Slytherins – well, there was never a wizard or witch turned rotten in all of Britain that wasn't a Slytherin. As for Gryffindor, it was a truly noble House, and an honour to be a part of. His father had been a Gryffindor. And his father's father. And so on, and so forth. He was a Gryffindor born and bred, and he told them so proudly.

Just then, the door opened and Professor McGonagall strode in. James turned back to the boy, but he was already skulking away, eyes directed at the floor in front of him. James, feeling a little confused and unnerved, looked at the professor.

"They're ready for you," she said, and the first years filed out of the room in a line.

* * *

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted."

Professor McGonagall stood at the front of the Great Hall, a long roll of parchment in her hands. Next to her was an old three-legged stool with an even older hat sitting on it. The Hogwarts professors all sat at a long table directly behind her, watching the students before them. When the First Years had entered the hallway, any chatter amongst them had automatically ceased. Whether they were purebloods, muggleborns, or any combination thereafter, not a single one had ever seen anything that could compare with the majesty of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The Great Hall was illuminated by hundred of candles, floating high above their heads; the chamber itself was bigger than James would have thought possible. The temperature was no more or less than comfortable, although James could feel sweat beginning to form on the back of his neck and his soggy robes were certainly less than comfortable.

The rest of the students all sat at their respective tables; Slytherins and Gryffindors were at opposite ends of the chamber, with Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs acting as buffers between the two. ( _And probably for good reason,_ James thought). The new first years stood single-file between the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, fidgeting nervously. A few of them were staring around at each other, or at McGonagall and the professors, or down at their feet. A good number more were staring upwards at a ceiling they weren't entirely sure was there. Lightning still snapped above, illuminating the swirling grey clouds momentarily, and the vibrations of thunder could be felt in the very structure of the stone castle. Students, first year and on, looked up and watched large raindrops fall downwards, but never land.

And that was when the shabby old hat had broken out into song. The hat went on about all the different strengths and virtues of each individual House: Ravenclaw's wit; Hufflepuff's integrity; Gryffindor's valour; Slytherin's drive. All very diplomatically put, James thought.

"Avery, Cecelia," McGonagall called out, and James's eyes snapped to the front of the room. A small girl with blonde ringlets and a pink nose and cheeks shuffled quickly to the front of the room. She perched herself carefully on the stool and closed her eyes as the professor lowered the hat (which was far too big for her) onto her head.

"Ravenclaw!" the hat called out, and the table directly to James's left broke out into applause. The girl hopped off the stool and was greeted warmly by her new housemates.

James sighed heavily. All they had to do was try on a hat. No arm-wrestling a troll or outwitting a sphynx or anything absurd like that.

"Adderley, Iain," was called next, and an uncomfortable-looking boy sat on the stool. James thought he looked like he had to go to the bathroom quite badly.

The hat took a little while longer before it shouted out "Slytherin!" James's lip turned into a small grimace and he rolled his eyes.

That's what he'd always been told, at least.

Professor McGonagall called out "Black, Sirius," and James, vaguely recognizing the name, looked forward. Ahead of him, the boy from the train breathed deeply and marched to the front of the hall.

 _That explains it,_ James thought, casting a glance to the Slytherin table. _No wonder he seemed familiar._

James immediately picked out a young woman near the end of the Slytherin table. She was older, probably in her fifth or sixth year, and was notably beautiful. Her not-quite-blonde hair was pulled back tightly, showing off her long neck and pretty eyes. Her complexion and general disposition was fair, and her relation to the boy on the stool was unmistakable. Then, James's eyes were drawn further down the Slytherin ranks, near the centre of the table where another girl sat. She was older than the first, and more striking than pretty, but still undeniably beautiful. Her long, straight raven-black hair framed her angular white face and accentuated her sharp cheekbones. Her eyes were lined with thick black lashes and her full mouth was a bloody scarlet. Once again, the similarities between her and the other two were obvious. James felt nervous just looking at her, so he turned away.

James turned back to the front of the room, where the Black boy was still sitting with the hat on his head. Lightning flashed from above and James counted to twelve before he felt rather than heard the following thunder. This was taking longer than it ought to.

 _Just throw him in Slytherin and be done with it,_ James thought. _Everyone knows that all Blacks are Slytherins. He might as well have it tattooed on his forehead._

So James was understandably startled when the hat finally called out "Gryffindor!" The table to the far right cheered boisterously, beckoning their first new housemate of the year. The boy himself looked ghostly. He cast a glance over to the Slytherin table, and James's eyes followed. The younger girl's expression was carefully schooled, but her light eyes looked troubled. The dark-haired girl farther down the table looked – scary. She hissed and spat at her housemates, and then fixed her relation with a stare that made James shiver. At the front of the hall, Black turned his back on the Slytherin table and walked over to be received by his new housemates.

At the same time, James was quickly reviewing everything he'd ever known about the Hogwarts Houses.

 _Gryffindor is for the courageous, the valorous, the noble. Blacks have always been known for their elitism; that's a Slytherin trait. And as far as I know, the Blacks have always been Slytherins. Why would a Black be sorted into Gryffindor?_ James felt an uncomfortable stirring in his gut that he couldn't identify.

McGonagall had gotten to "Fawcett, Jenna," when James started paying attention again. He noted mentally that a few more Ravenclaws had been sorted, as well as some Slytherins and one other Gryffindor. Jenna Fawcett was the first Hufflepuff of the year.

James started paying only partial attention to the sorting when they reached "Lupin, Remus," and the quiet boy from boat was also sorted into Gryffindor. James was staring at the ceiling that wasn't quite a ceiling, watching the clouds swirl around each other. The rain had stopped, it seemed, and the lightning had become infrequent. James hummed to himself, not knowing what it was he was singing as McGonagall went through the rest of the Ls, as well as the Ms and Ns. There were no Os.

Currently, "Pettigrew, Peter," who was the small boy that had all but attached himself to James during the trek through the muddy forest, was being sorted. James hadn't heard anything being said for a while, so he turned his attention back to the task at hand. Pettigrew had been all but lost inside the old hat, which he seemed to have broken. The boy himself was clutching the stool in a death grip, and was trembling visibly, although he looked as though he was trying hard not to. Professor McGonagall had just taken a step forward to remove the hat from the boy's head when it finally called out "Gryffindor!"

James stood shocked. He actually felt all the blood rush out of his face and down into his toes, and even felt a little dizzy. How could _that_ boy be a Gryffindor? He looked like he might start crying if you started talking too loudly in his general direction. He hadn't even _tried_ to stand up to those kids who had been picking on him earlier (all of whom had been sorted into Slytherin, James noted, except for one still waiting to be). And Lupin! The boy looked as though he might get blown over by a strong wind!

By the time the professor called out his name, James's brain felt slow and muddled. Nothing made sense. He was supposed to be a Gryffindor, he knew. He'd always known that. But – something didn't feel right. He was missing something. Something was wrong. Everything was wrong. He wasn't sure what, but he knew he had to fix it.

Because if he didn't, he was sure to go insane.

James wandered up to the front of the Hall in something of a daze. He barely noticed when the professor placed the Sorting Hat on his head.

 _Bit of a mess in here,_ a voice said in his head, and James jumped.

 _What the hell?_ James thought. Or at least he thought he thought it.

 _Now, what kind of language is that for a young boy?_ the voice asked.

 _What are you?_ James asked the voice, ignoring the question. _The hat?_

 _Very astute,_ the hat said, and James was pretty sure he could sense sarcasm. _Regardless, you do have quite a mind. But far too much gall for your own good, I think, perhaps too much for Ravenclaw. And you're no Hufflepuff, oh no! However… I do believe I have just the place for you, boy._

 _Gryffindor,_ James said.

 _Slytherin,_ the hat told him. James jumped.

 _Slytherin?_ James gaped. _I'm no Slytherin!_

 _Why not?_ The hat asked. _Except for this grudge you seem to have against them, I think you would make for an ideal Slytherin. You've got the mind for it, and the ambition. The attitude...and pride. I would think Salazar would be proud to have you in his House. Maybe even represent it someday._

 _I'm not a Slytherin,_ James told the hat. _I'm a Gryffindor._

 _What makes you so sure? Why is it so important for you to be a Gryffindor? How can you be sure you were meant to be there?_

 _Be-because,_ James said nervously.

 _You don't sound certain,_ the hat told him.

 _I am,_ James told the hat, focusing on everything his family had ever told him about the House. About the experience of it, and the benefits they gained from it. _I am sure. I want to be a Gryffindor._

 _You would do very well in Slytherin,_ the hat insisted.

 _I don't care. I want to be a Gryffindor._

 _Very well._

The Sorting Hat called out "Gryffindor!" and James let out a deep breath. The hat was removed, and James saw his generic grey tie bleed colour until it was a vivid striped pattern of scarlet and gold. The Hogwarts crest on his robes swirled and was replaced by the Gryffindor emblem. James wandered over to the cheering table where Frank stood applauding loudly. His mind felt numb and distant. That wasn't how it was supposed to have gone. James looked around the table, at all of his housemates. He looked at Lupin, and Pettigrew, and Black, his roommates for the next seven years of his life. They all looked back at him; Pettigrew smiled nervously, and Lupin just watched. Black sort of glared stonily then turned away. James didn't know what to think about any of this.

He had no idea of anything anymore.

* * *

"…I am certain this year will prove to be a rewarding…up to the challenge. As Head Boy…proud to represent…"

James propped his head up on his hand, although it (the head, not the hand) threatened to slip off repeatedly. After the Sorting, Headmaster Dumbledore, a willowy old figure with long white hair and an even longer white beard, had stood up to address his students. The speech was sheer brilliance – he'd said a bit of gibberish, made some extravagant hand gestures, and told them all to "tuck in". James had taken an immediate liking to the man. However, this year's Head Boy – a very tall, very, very blond Slytherin seventh year – had insisted on making a speech after the Headmaster. He'd even dragged his Head Girl counterpart along with him. And now, hours later (or so it seemed) his mindless drabble was numbing James's brain to a degree he had never thought possible to survive. James was actually inches away from picking up his dinner plate, which was still half full of the most delicious food he had ever tasted, and bashing himself repeatedly over the head with it. For a while, James clung to this image to create a mental shield from the blather pouring out of the Head Boy. When that got boring, James began mentally picturing silly moustaches on the Head Boy's face.

"… Head Girl and I would particularly like to extend our welcome to the new First Year students…"

"What a ponce," James heard Black mutter from a few seats down. Black was glaring in the general direction of the Head Boy (probably to avoid looking directly at him and consequently going blind from the sheer brightness of the guy's hair) and was creating a vortex in his mess of mashed potatoes and gravy by spinning his fork around and around in it. James found this action to be strangely hypnotic, and far more interesting that the Head Boy (who James agreed was definitely a ponce).

"What on Earth are you doing?" James asked finally. Black looked up, still spinning his fork.

"What's it to you?" he replied. James sniffed.

"You know, those used to be perfectly good potatoes," James said.

"They're still good potatoes," Black said with a hint of a smirk. With his fork, Black scooped up some potato, which had taken on the general consistency of slime, and flung at the wall. The potato stuck fast momentarily, then began to ooze its way slowing downwards.

"How's your distance with that thing?" James asked, looking in the direction of the Head Boy still standing at the front of the room. A glob of potato zoomed past James's ear, and he turned to face Black, who was still holding his fork in attack position.

"A sight better than my aim, I think," Black said with a smirk.

"Prick," James snarled.

"Have you got anything to add, Miss Llyewellyn?" the Head Boy asked, turning to the Head Girl for the first time.

"No, I think you've just about covered everything, Lucius," she told him graciously. He nodded, and the two of them went to their table to scattered applause.

Dessert passed by fairly uneventfully. James had chatted for a bit with Frank and his girlfriend. James had also tried to strike up a conversation with his new roommates, but with little success. Whereas Pettigrew was just shy, Lupin seemed withdrawn – he spoke only when spoken to, and with as few words as possible, but he was not as obviously nervous as Pettigrew, who stammered over his works and had a permanent pink colour in his face.

Now that the meal was over, the headmaster was giving his proper speech, which, thankfully, was much less dreary than the Head Boy's had been.

"…Mr. Filch has posted a list of these banned items on the events boards in each of your common rooms, as well as on the door of his office. Possession or use of these items will result in automatic detention.

"Also, the Forbidden Forest is still forbidden, which means entry without specific permission is strictly prohibited. In relation, I would like to point out a recent addition to our grounds. The Whomping Willow, which is located near the edge of the forest, can be particularly disagreeable, and should be avoided if one wishes to avoid great deals of pain.

"And on that note, to bed with you all!"

The final traces of a most wonderful dessert vanished and all of the students in the Great Hall stood and stretched. James, now that he was fed and warm again, felt comfortably full and not a little sleepy. He ran a hand mindlessly through his ruffled hair, and looked about him for some sign of direction. He could have sworn he heard someone trying to say something above the din of the crowd, but all of the students, not only the Gryffindors, were chatting loudly, effectively drowning out any sound quieter than an explosion.

"Oy! Shut it, you lot!"

Or Frank.

The talking amongst the Gryffindors ceased immediately and Frank hopped down from the bench he'd been standing on, his shiny silver P badge glimmering in the torchlight. "They're all yours, Meadowes," he told his fellow Prefect.

"Right then," said Meadowes, a pleasant-looking girl with a long blond ponytail. "First years are to follow us, please. Everyone else is to head up to the common room."

The older students all made their way out of the Great Hall, leaving the First Year Gryffindors with their two Fifth Year prefects. "Now for the rest of you, a quick tour of Hogwarts. Or as quick as a tour of Hogwarts can be – it's a pretty big school." A collective groan broke out among the crowd.

"Can't we do the tour tomorrow?" a girl with short brown curls asked with an obviously practiced pout.

"No," Frank answered bluntly. More groans came from the First Years. "Oh come on! It'll be good for you! Work off some of that supper."

"I like my supper where it is, thanks," James called out. The other First Years laughed or agreed.

"Saucy little bunch, aren't they?" Frank said to Meadowes, who rolled her eyes. "D'you lot want to go to bed?" Frank called out to the First Years. They all muttered 'yes' at once. "Good. 'Cause the sooner we get this tour out of the way, the sooner we can all go to bed. And no, you don't have a choice." The First Years groaned collectively again. Frank and Meadowes both laughed.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Meadowes said, leading the group out of the Great Hall. "Mind the staircases – they like to move."

* * *

"Bed!" James cried upon entering the First Year dormitory. He immediately rushed over to a four-poster bed, checking quickly to see that it was indeed his trunk sitting in front of it, and collapsed face-first onto the soft mattress. It was a _very_ soft mattress, with thick comforters and nice squishy pillows. It all smelled of wood and potpourri. He could see himself very happy here.

"What does she mean, the staircases like to move?" Pettigrew asked in a wavering voice from his corner of the room. Or, from what would have been the corner, were the room not round.

"Mmrh," said James, his face very thoroughly muffled by his pillow.

And that was the end of the conversation in the room. Each boy located their bed and basically kept to their section of the room. It was a fairly large room, with four four-poster beds and an empty spot that looked as though there ought to be one more. Each bed was accompanied by small wooden tables on either side. There was only one writing table, though, and James wondered how exactly that was going to work. There was a small bathroom connected to the room as well, but it was rather primitive. It consisted of nothing more than a toilet, a sink, a single shower stall, and a small amount of storage space.

James finally rolled himself off his bed and started to dig through his trunk for some sleepwear. He pulled out an old Puddlemere United jersey and a pair of worn plaid trousers and glanced about the room. Pettigrew was standing near his bed holding a pair of blue pyjamas in his hand, looking rather sheepish. Lupin had locked himself in the bathroom to change. Black was stripping out of his robes right in the middle of his room, not giving a damn about modesty. James began changing into his own nightclothes. Not one boy looked at another, and no one spoke.

"This is ridiculous!" James explodes finally. Black and Pettigrew both look up at him with expressions ranging from quite startled to mildly interested. "Look, we're going to be dorm mates for the next seven years. We should at least introduce ourselves or something."

"Well I don't know where you were during the Sorting, but the rest of us already know who everyone is," Black said, rolling his eyes.

"That so?" James said to Black. "Then what's his name?" he asked, pointing at Pettigrew in the corner. Black snorted.

"If you want to know his name, then why don't you just ask him yourself?"

"I don't want to know his name. I want to know if _you_ know his name," said James.

"Oh that's nice of you. You don't want to know his name?" Black said, obviously trying to bait him.

"That's not what I meant!" James growled. He turned to Pettigrew, who may have turned slightly puce. "It's Peter, right?" James asked, and Pettigrew nodded. James grinned triumphantly at Black, who rolled his eyes. "James Potter, nice to meet you. Why don't you tell us something about yourself, Peter."

"Merlin," Black huffed, shaking his head. James ignored him

"Well I – I don't know," Peter said, looking very much like a small creature being cornered by a much larger predator. James smiled as reassuringly as he could, and Pettigrew seemed to relax a little.

"Come on, Peter. Just say anything. Like – what's your Quidditch team?"

"Well, my dad likes the Wasps…" Pettigrew said.

"There you go! That's something," James said enthusiastically. "All right, Lupin, your turn," James said to Lupin, who had just walked out of the bathroom in his pyjamas. Lupin said nothing, but looked at James questioningly. "Tell us something about yourself." James urged him. Lupin shrugged. "Oh come on! Anything."

"Leave him alone, Potter. Maybe he doesn't want to talk," said Black.

"I'm _trying_ to get everyone acquainted," James replied.

"Maybe he doesn't want to _get_ acquainted," Black snapped.

" _No one_ wants to get acquainted with _you_ ," James snapped back.

"Oh, how very diplomatic of you. You know, I think – "

"No one cares what you think – "

"Would you both stop bickering!" Lupin said loudly, and James and Black were quiet.

"He started it," James muttered.

"Oh real mature!" Black barked. Lupin shook his head and started turning down his covers.

"Look," James appealed, facing Lupin. "I just figured that, since we're all going to be stuck with each other for a while, we ought to at least try to be friendly. Or at least speak to each other!" Lupin looked at him, considering.

"All right," he acquiesced. "What d'you want to know?"

"I don't know," James shrugged, sitting on the edge of hid bed, his feet hanging over his trunk. "Anything. Where're you from? What do your parents do? Whatever. Something." Lupin raised an eyebrow.

"I'm lactose intolerant," he said.

"Oh. Well that's…" was all James said. It seemed the conversation was dead and gone, so James left it at that. Everyone crawled into bed and shut off the lanterns next to their beds. James, not bothering to draw his curtain all the way around, and snuggled into his pillow. "Goodnight everyone," he called out quietly. He got no reply.


End file.
